


One is the Loneliest Number

by lwbones123



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Depressed Tommyinnit, Gen, Hurt not much comfort, tommy is exiled and chilling with his dead bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:40:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27950153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lwbones123/pseuds/lwbones123
Summary: Tommy is exiled, with only his dead brother for company. Angst ensues.
Relationships: TommyInnit & Ghostbur
Comments: 2
Kudos: 133





	One is the Loneliest Number

**Author's Note:**

> I think all I know how to write is angst. I hope y'all enjoy. Comments are always appreciated!  
> (Also minor thing: I think Tommy and Wilbur were talking in a stream about why Wilbur had made Tubbo president. From what I remember I thought that Tommy was the one to make Tubbo president, but for this story I guess we'll pretend that it was Wilbur who made Tubbo president lol).
> 
> Follow my tumblr if you'd like: lwbones

It is sunny today. He knows because of the steadily increasing heat on his face, the darkness behind his eyelids gradually shifting to a burning crimson. There is a breeze as well, smelling of the salt of the sea. It is a smell he has come to hate. He misses other smells, smells of bread and wood, gunpowder and smoke. Smells of L’Manburg.

The fabric of his tent is too thin, he thinks. 

He lies still in his bed, a mattress made of hay and an old blanket found in a nearby village. There is nothing left inside him, he thinks. Nothing but a dull ache in his chest. His limbs are heavy. The bed, though uncomfortable, is not so uncomfortable that he is willing to get up.

“Tommy?” a high pitched voice, whispering in his ear. He doesn’t respond.

“Tommy, come on!” Wilbur, Ghostbur, whoever the phantom is now, says louder this time.

“It’s a beautiful day!” his voice, its sing-song tone, grates on Tommy’s fraying nerves. “I made breakfast because I figured you were kind of tired. You’ve been sleeping for a while now,” the ghost finishes, a hint of worry apparent in his tone.

Tommy makes a noise, a grumble from deep within his chest.

“Tommmyyy,” the ghost whines, and he feels a brush of wind across his cheek. He swats at his cheek, for a moment half expecting to feel Wilbur’s solid, warm hand. His hand meets empty air.

“Fuck off,” he mutters into the mattress.

“Tommy, come on, I promise, it’s such a great day outside! You’re wasting the whole day away!”

Tommy’s hands clench into the worn blanket. The ghost’s never ending positivity, his eternal cheerfulness, has been torturous to endure for the past few weeks. Tommy’s temper, which on a good day is barely restrained, flares like a bonfire at his dead brother’s playful tone.

“Tommmyyyy,” comes the whisper again in his ear.

“What do you want?” he exclaims, sitting up suddenly, his blanket pooling around his waist. His head buzzes from sitting up so fast, his vision blurs, but he sees the edges of the ghost, sitting beside him, the humble makings of his new home scattered around him.

Wilbur’s grey face seems to fall right in front of him. The smile, so innocent and so unlike his brother, melts from his face, his eyes, wide with excitement, lower to the ground. Tommy’s chest constricts tightly. He would never get used to seeing his brother like this.

“I don’t know, Tommy,” Wil, no not Wil, the ghost, whispers. “I thought you might want to get up. The weather is so nice today.”

Tommy shakes his head, turns away from the phantom. There are so many things he wants to ask, to know, to scream at his brother. But it’s not Wil beside him. Not the same Wil. So he takes a breath, and faces the ghost again.

“Fine,” he says, forcing himself to sound calm. “Fine, I’ll get up.”

The ghost is like a child, his face lighting up with unrestrained joy.

“Great!” he exclaims, his high pitched voice cracking at the end of the word. He stands up, his limbs extending in a fluidity Wilbur’s, alive Wilbur’s, joints never could. Tommy is suddenly struck by a memory of the way Wilbur’s knees used to snap and crack, loud enough to cause general alarm amongst any who heard.

“I’m so old,” Wilbur would lament, leaning on Tommy as if lame. “Please, Tommy, you have to carry me. My knees, they ache.”

“Fuck off,” Tommy would say, shoving his older brother aside. He would try to keep his face straight, but eventually a smile would crack and Wilbur would tossle his hair in that annoying way Tommy always hated.

Tommy watches the pale reflection of his brother now, the way he hums as he flings aside the tent flaps with a gust of wind, the way an easy smile rests on his lineless face. Even before everything went to shit, this was not Wilbur. Wil, who was strong and capable, charismatic and charming, was nothing like the ghost in front of him.

The ghost catches him staring, smiles at him. Tommy forces his jaw to relax, forces his shoulders to loosen. He sighs.

“I’m coming,” he says, swinging his feet over the side of the mattress, his entire body bruised and aching. He rubs a hand over his face, winces when his fingers catch on the scratch slicing his cheek, the product of a skeleton’s stray arrow from a few days before. The bandages wrapped around his forearms, stinging burns from the Nether beneath them, hang loose, and he fixes them as he stands.

“Ok, Tommy,” the ghost says, enthusiastically setting off out of the tent, Tommy trailing slowly behind. “I’ve made some breakfast, your favorite, look!”

The ghost points a grey finger at the campfire nestled amidst the green grass, eggs and bacon sizzling on a wooden makeshift plate.

Tommy nods, can’t muster up the energy to give the ghost a smile. That is enough for the ghost, apparently, because he skips ahead to the fire, kneeling beside it and holding out the plate to Tommy.

The boy accepts the plate, but remains standing, looking out over their campsite. Green stretches in front of him for a few feet, grass as tall as his waist in some parts, and beyond the grass a golden beach, a glistening blue sea. It would be beautiful, he thinks, if it were not marked, marred, by ugly, ugly loneliness.

“Sit down, Tommy,” the ghost says. Tommy tears his eyes away from the horizon and looks down on the phantom, who pats the earth next to him. “Stay awhile.”

It is meant to be said jokingly, the crooked smile on the ghost’s face innocent as always, but the statement weighs Tommy’s heart down like a rock in a tumultuous river.

“I won’t be staying awhile,” he says, the words supposed to be harsh, and angry, instead leaving his mouth sounding weak, and thin.

“Well of course not,” the ghost responds. “We’re just here on holiday, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, biting his lip. “Yeah, we’re just here on holiday.”

His limbs ache as he slowly lowers himself into the grass, crossing his legs beneath him. He clutches the plate to his chest, feeling no hunger, no desire to eat the food on it. The smell is almost sickening and he scrunches his nose.

“You don’t want it?” the ghost asks, watching him intently, and Tommy sighs, feeling guilt well up in him.

“No, no, I want it,” he says, poking at the food with his finger. He reluctantly takes a few bites, enough to appease the ghost, before placing the plate on the ground.

He wonders what Tubbo is doing right now, beyond the ocean which stretches infinitely in front of him. He wonders if Tubbo is thinking about him, if he ever thinks of him. He wonders if Tubbo regrets what he’s done, or if there has only been happiness since Tommy’s exile.

“Tommy?” the ghost beside him asks, and it’s only when he turns to look at the pale face of his dead brother that he feels the stinging in his eyes.

“What?” Tommy asks roughly.

“You miss it, don’t you?”

The question rings in the air, asked so sincerely. Despite himself, he laughs, the sound rattling in his chest, twisting into something closer to a sob. He twists his fingers into the grass, bites his trembling lip. He is afraid that if he speaks, the tears welling up in his eyes will spill over. He is afraid they will never stop.

“I got you something,” the ghost says softly, reaching into his pocket. “I know you haven’t gone back to L’Manburg yet, so I’ve brought L’Manburg back to you.”

He holds out a folded piece of paper, worn and torn at the edges. Tommy takes it and unfolds it, his shaking hands slowing the process. The ghost watches on, expectant eyes monitoring Tommy’s face.

It’s a photo. A photo of L’Manburg, taken at night. Shining lanterns hovering in the air, the docks rising above the coral reef, so full of life, in a crater which had caused so much death. He sees Phil’s house, and Fundy’s house, and his own house, nestled close on the wooden platforms. The New L’Manburg flags hang, suspended in the air forever, their colors bright.

A wave of… something hits him, so intense that he jumps to his feet, a look of surprise plastered on his phantom brother’s face. Something twists, clenches, constricts so tightly in his chest and all he wants is to escape it. To run away from it, to leave it at the campfire with his dead brother and the plate of half eaten food.

He takes off, sprinting in his torn and flopping shoes, photo tightly clenched in his fist. He does not know where he is going. He knows it doesn’t matter. The wind races along at his feet, nipping at his ankles like an over excited dog. He feels the wetness of tears on his cheeks, doesn’t care. If he runs, and keeps running, none of it will matter.

There is sand beneath his feet, slowing him down, pulling him into the ground. He fights it, until he trips over his own feet, flying into the rough sand beneath him. He hits the ground hard, ribs aching, and curls into himself, pressing his face into the warm sand. There is no stopping the loud, heaving sobs that pierce the air, mixing with the roar of the ocean, the squawking of the birds above him. He sobs uncontrollably, his chest burning with the intensity of his tears. The sand sticks to his wet face, and he accidentally breathes some in, his sobs increasing with each painful inhale of air.

He feels nothing, nothing but pure sadness, a sorrow that runs deep beneath his skin. The fingers of his hand not clenched around the photo of his home curl into his hair, pull until his scalp aches.

He is alone. He is so alone. Alone with no one but his dead brother who isn’t his brother, who can’t understand, refuses to understand.

Why did Tubbo do it? He sees his best friend’s face, contorted in anger.

“The disks don’t matter, Tommy!” he yells. “They don’t matter!”

He sees Dream, white porcelain mask with its mocking smile staring down at him, pushing him into a boat.

“You can never go back,” the man says, netherite armor glowing in the darkening storm. “If you do, I’ll kill you.”

He sees Wilbur, the real Wilbur, his older brother, a crazed gleam in his eyes, leaning down, whispering into his ear:

“Let’s be the bad guys, Tommy.”

“Tommy?” he hears, the high pitched voice lighting a fire deep in the pit of his stomach.

“Why?” Tommy wails, raising his head from the sand, staring up into his brother’s ghostly face. “Why did you do it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the ghost says, voice soft, melancholic.

“Why did you make Tubbo president, Wil?” Tommy screams, pounding the ground with his fists, sand flying up into the air. “Why would you do that?”

The ghost shakes his head, a frown pulling at his features.

“I didn’t do that, Tommy,” he says. “That wasn’t me.”

“Yes it was!” Tommy shouts back, feeling the fire race up his throat. “It was you, you did this to me!”

The ghost shakes his head harder, as if trying to rid himself of such a thought.

“Tommy I would never do anything to hurt you-”

“Shut up! Just shut up!” Tommy says, hiccups punctuating his words. “You can’t keep doing this, Wil! You can’t keep lying to yourself, to me! You,” he screams, pointing at the ghost with an accusing finger. “ _You_ blew up L’Manburg, _you_ betrayed us, _you_ betrayed me, and _you_ made Tubbo president to hurt me, I know you did!”

The ghost’s features are twisted in confusion and hurt, his hands pulling at his sweater anxiously. His head shakes back and forth violently.

“Admit it! Just admit it!” Tommy shouts shrilly, digging his nails into the soft ground. “You hated me and you made Tubbo president just to drive us apart!”

The ghost continues to shake his head and Tommy feels the fight leave his body, his body folding in on itself like a marionette cut from its strings. He rests his forehead back into the sand, hiccups breaking the silence between the two of them.

It feels like he lies there for hours. It could only be minutes. It would never matter. At some point, he feels something powdery being pressed into his free hand. Momentarily confused, he glances at his hand, a clump of lapis lazuli lying in his palm.

“Blue?” he asks shakily, looking up at the ghost.

“Yeah,” the ghost responds, smiling sadly. “I think you need it.”

“I’m not sad, Wil,” Tommy says, crushing the blue in his grip. He looks out at the never ending sea. “I’m not sad,” he repeats.

“Then what are you?” the ghost asks.

“I’m angry, I’m- I’m mad, I’m… I’m….”

He sighs, pressing the blue to his chest.

He remembers a time, when he was younger, before the wars, before the betrayals, with Wil and Techno and Phil. He remembers falling down a mineshaft, pulling Wil down with him. He remembers lying at the bottom of the shaft, blood tainting his vision, Wil pressing the blue into his small hands.

“It takes away the sadness,” Wil had said, wiping away his tears. “It starts out all clear, but when you touch it, it soaks up all your sadness, and it turns blue.”

Younger Tommy had believed every word that had left Wil’s mouth, had held the blue in a tight grip until Phil and Techno had found them hours later, like a prayer whispered up to the heavens. He whispers a prayer now, a silent plea to the universe.

 _I want to go home_ , he thinks. He stares out at the wall of blue water, and his chest aches so painfully he thinks he might die.

 _Let me go home_.


End file.
